this side of eternity oozes with pain and disappointment, especially with one’s self. sometimes it’s a nice garden of broken but supporting fellow travellers, but other times it’s a desert. sometimes a self-inflicted desert. and it’s ok, because this gives us a longing for what is to come.
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“The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. (…) Almost our whole education has been directed to silencing this shy, persistent, inner voice; almost all our modem philosophies have been devised to convince us that the good of man is to be found on this earth. And yet it is a remarkable thing that such philosophies of Progress or Creative Evolution themselves bear reluctant witness to the truth that our real goal is elsewhere.” – C. S. Lewis

‘… let us contemplate our mortality. shall dust exalt itself? the thoughts of the grave should bury our pride. (…) the serious meditation of death is enough to cure the swealing of pride.’ – thomas watson

{the song was a gift for my brother’s birthday a few days ago. we used to sit in our shared balcony in our childhood home and play guitar, sing and talk}